The Journey Home
by matthiascalis
Summary: It is night. A lone figure cuts through the snow carrying a mysterious letter, written down thirteen years ago by a woman in Coventry. Accompanied only by his tall hat and an icy wind, he knocks on Papa Georges's door and changes Hugo's life forever.
1. Chapter 1 - Fixing the past

Chapter 1. Fixing the past.

In a small but comfortable house, seated opposite to a graveyard, a boy sat at a table. Warm light flooded through the closed windows, trying to chase the blankets of snow and the dark veils of winter away.

Hugo smiled as the gears made a little whirling noise. The mechanical soldier toy he'd been fixing sprung back to live, saluted him, marched around the table for a bit and then halted with a click.

"Hugo, clear the table please," Mama Jeanne called from the kitchen. A waft of boeuf de bourguignon trailed after her voice. He snatched up the toy soldier, shoved some old newspapers aside and eagerly laid out the cutlery. Just when he had stuffed the last of his tools away into a leather pouch Isabelle had given him, there was a knock on the door.

"If it's those church people again, tell them we're not interested," Mama Jeanne warned.

Hugo hurried out of the living room, through their front door, down the stairs and yanked the front-front door open.

"Good evening."

Tall but thin as a broomstick the shadow of an ageing man with round spectacles, a tall hat and a very well kept moustache loomed over him. If the iceman he and Isabelle had built would've come to live, he'd have frozen at the man's chilling voice.

"You are Monseigneur Cabret?" The man feinted a mild interest though Hugo could feel the distant grey eyes behind the spectacles drilling into his soul. Before he could shut the door, the man lowered himself to his height and primed a bony finger underneath his chin and lifted it, as if he was a pretty bird to be sold. "You carry your father's semblance."

His heart plummeted through his stomach, drained down his legs and turned into lead near his feet. "You knew my father?"

The man withdrew his finger. "But of course. My name is Francois Lavette, I've been looking for you for a very long time."

"For me?" His shoulders dropped. No one had ever been looking for him, no one had even known or cared he existed ever since his father had died.

"Yes for you." An icy gust of wind drowned the silence that stood between them. "May I come in? We have much to discuss."

Mama Jeanne had nearly chased Francois away with a ladle, mistaking him for a man of the church. Hugo couldn't blame her, Francois did carry a little wooden cross on a necklace and he had the same rigid posture that the priest had. Fortunately, a snow-covered Papa Georges and red-cheeked Isabelle intervened and Francois joined them at the table, sipping cautiously at a glass of cheap red wine.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Mama Jeanne was obviously trying to make up for her outburst, but Francois denied her for the third time.

"I am fine, thank you mademoiselle."

"So you've come all the way from Bordeaux to meet Hugo here?" the disbelief in George's voice was palpable.

"That's where Michel de Montaigne was from, isn't it?" Isabelle chimed in.

Francois nodded. "There's a clever girl. And here I was, thinking Parisians cared for no-one but themselves."

The harsh frown on Georges's forehead only deepened which was a dark omen, Hugo had learned. "What's your business with my son?" he demanded.

A buzz of warmth shot through Hugo's chest. Though he missed his real father, Papa Georges was as close to a replacement as it got. The old man had a way with his magic tricks and a great passion for movies. A passion that they shared. Sometimes, he would sit at the table and talk all night about the latest advancements in cinematic technology until Mama Jeanne would intervene, complain about how late it had gotten, and chase Hugo to bed.

Francois put his glass down with a confident clunk, straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Therein lies the reason of my visit. We both know that young Cabret isn't your son by blood, name or law. I don't mean to question your good intentions, but he isn't yours before the law."

"And what exactly do you mean by this?" Papa Georges growled, his knuckles turned white and Hugo feared for the fork in his hand.

Francois sighed, reached for his coat pocket and pulled out a pipe and a letter. "Do you mind?" he asked Mama Jeanne as he handed the letter to George. She shook her head, she only minded the contents of the small, and vale envelope that George held in his trembling hands.

Hugo's gaze darted from Francois to George and back again. Not even the soft sweet scent of mildly burned tobacco could put his racing mind at ease.

"Shortly put," Francois said as he puffed his pipe, "he falls under the jurisdiction of the parish in London. I so happen to be travelling there and as such was requested to take Monsieur Cabret with me."

Isabelle's eyes widened with the same, helpless dread that threatened to choke him. The taste of the bourguignon soured on his tongue and a lump forced its way up his throat. Was he really to come with the smoking scarecrow next to him?


	2. Chapter 2 - Farewell, mon cher Paris

Chapter 2 - Farewell, mon cher Paris.

Francois left soon thereafter, escaping George's wrath in the nick of time. Hugo had to stop him from tearing the letter to shreds, as had been George's custom, before he got a chance to read it.

_Coventry, 1921._

_Through this letter the Parish of St. Peter of Coventry declares before the law and in the eyes of The Lord that it will take upon itself the burden of raising, disciplining and otherwise nourishing the child Hugo Cabret, should Rainier Cabret and Christina Millers, his parents, come to pass or become otherwise unsuited to care for him, until he has come of age._

_The Parish are hereby given all the parental rights that the boy's parents currently exercise and retains the right to educate, raise and relocate him as they see fit, should the terms above have been met._

_Signed,_

_Rainier Cabret_

_Christina Millers_

_Vicar George Crosscastle in the name of the board of St. Peter's Parish._

Not even the touch of Mama Jeanne on his shoulder or the comforting words Isabelle whispered to him that night could help him to fall asleep, and the sun had already begun to ascend by the time that he did. Why did the Parish go to such lengths to retrieve him? Couldn't they see he was being taken care of just fine? He could scarcely imagine the expense of bringing him all the way from Paris to Coventry. Either his parents had some really good, loyal friends there, or something else was at work. But what? Still, he couldn't shake off the thought that his parents had apparently wanted this for him, and as the hours passed he began to feel more and more obliged to honor their plans.

"Hugo," Isabelle's voice sounded. She shook him lightly, as if she resented waking him up at all. He rolled over and opened one eye lazily. It took him several seconds to become aware of his predicament again. "Hugo, you have to wake up and-"

"-and pack my things?" he interrupted.

A silence fell between them until he could no longer bear to hear it, cast the blankets aside and headed straight for the letter that he'd put on a cupboard the night before. Though he could recite it from memory, he wanted to make sure that it was real.

To his despair, it was. The sun reached noon before he could bring himself to start packing his things. Isabelle tried to help, but sometimes dashed away, stubbornly trying to deny her tears, only to return with swollen eyes. "Oh Hugo," she said, "You mustn't forget to write us. I-I. . .I am so worried for you."

"Don't be," Hugo replied. "It's no use worrying, and I'll come back."

"Are you sure?"

Hugo raised himself from the trunk he'd been packing. Though he had much more belongings now than when he'd lived in the train station, there still wasn't enough to fill it up entirely. Avoiding Isabelle's gaze, Hugo turned around and fidgeted with his fingers. "I think so," he said, "but I can't be sure."

"Oh Hugo," she cried before squeezing the air out of his lungs by pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I'll be fine."

"Please be. I'll never forgive myself if. . ."

"If what?"

"Never mind," she whispered, "just don't forget to write."

She pulled back and smiled softly. "I have something for you." She walked over to the cupboard, opened a drawer and pulled out a small book. "Here, Papa used to read this to me when I was little, it's my favorite."

Hugo carefully accepted the ragged book, as if it was some ancient relic to be handled with the utmost care and respect. The cover page read: _The Lord of The Flies by William Golding._

"I don't think I should take it, it might get damaged, or lost, or both." He tried to hand it back but she pushed it against his chest. "I don't care, it's yours now."

The strings of his soul struck into a beautiful chord that ringed through every fiber of his being. "Thanks," he managed to choke out before he stubbornly resumed packing.

Soon, the time to leave had arrived. Mama Jeanne and Papa George only stopped trying to talk him out of leaving when he'd put his coat on and waited at the door. Papa George dragged his trunk towards the door and Isabelle was buttoning up her coat when Mama Jeanne decided to try once more.

She put a slightly trembling hand on Hugo's shoulder, "you don't have to go with that man. You really don't, we can find you a place and tell him you went missing or-"

"But I must, "he interrupted. He wanted to stay for her sake, and for that of Isabelle and Papa George but this was what his parents had decided to be best for him. So he decided that the very least he could do was it give a try. "I must, or you'll be in trouble. Besides, this is what my parents wanted for me. I can't just ignore it. And I'll write," he promised for the umpteenth time.

"We should go or you'll be late," George warned.

Hugo savored the smells and sounds of Paris, knowing he would miss the shouts of the traders at the market. Though the baker's stand had already packed, the scent of croissants still lingered in the air and he took another deep breath when they passed the chocolatier. Though it seemed to take an eternity, the station finally came into view. His heart skipped a beat at seeing what had once been his home and then skipped another at realizing he would have to leave it behind again.

Monsieur Lavette was indeed waiting in the station hall, as they'd agreed. After a few more ceremonial goodbyes, and Lavette assuring Mama Jeanne that Hugo was in good hands and that he was allowed to write them daily, they finally boarded the train.

Seeing a train on the inside for the first time gave him some solace, but he still felt nauseous when the train departed towards Bordeaux. Lavette remained awfully quiet and so he resorted to staring out of the window and watch the landscape zip by, wondering if he'd ever come back.


	3. Chapter 3 - Purpose

Chapter 3 – Purpose.

"But," Isabelle said, "there must be something we can do!"

She had never seen Papa Georges look so sad. He limped through the snow with slumped shoulders, as if he was broken again. Mama Jeanne wrapped an arm around him, to comfort herself as well, she reckoned. Businessman, soldiers, common people; all rushed through the settling dark, desperate to get home. She would've felt the same on a night as cold as this, she would've hurried home with Hugo at her side. She already missed his cheeky grins, and the snow fights, and the chases. . .

"I don't know my child," Mama Jeanne replied. "He has made his choice."

"Well it wasn't his choice, if you remember!" Isabelle huffed. "Not really at least," she muttered.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, someway, this was her fault. Hadn't he liked it to live with her? Aside from an argument over a teapot, and several more about books, she couldn't recall him ever being visibly upset, or gloomy liked he'd used to be. With a shock of desperation, she realized how secretive Hugo had been. Maybe he had hated living with Papa Georges, and Mama Jeanne, and her. . .

Quiet and dreary like undertakers, the trio arrived at home. They spoke only to wish each other good night. Isabelle didn't sleep much, the house felt cold and eerily quiet as if the cumulative sadness of Paris had sneaked through the nooks and crannies.

The endless white outside, only interrupted by the occasional leafless tree, soon bored him. Francois Lavette still hadn't spoken a word, he had hidden behind a newspaper, filling up almost the entire width of the bench he was seated on. Hugo cocked his head and scanned the headlines, his eyes remained fixed on the bold font in the center.

_Treaty of Versailles violated, Germany on the rise._

"What's that?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Francois turned the paper around. For once, his face expressed sincere interest. "Oh. _Deutschland_," he grinned. "They never learn."

Hugo frowned. He knew of the war of course, even though he'd been born after it. Many boys and girls his age had been orphaned by it and it had cost George almost all of his business. "Do you think there'll be a war?"

Francois put the paper down, eyed Hugo over the edge of his spectacles and meditated on his answer. "I don't think so," he said thoughtfully, "but if there will be, it'll be a short one." A smile parted his lips. "Don't worry yourself about it."

His icy tone and cold demeanor seemed to have drifted away on the winter wind. Hugo searched for a reason behind the sudden change of attitude, but couldn't find one and shrugged off his concern. Perhaps travelling with Lavette wouldn't be all that horrible after all. And, as much as he missed Paris already, curiosity tingled in his bones. Coventry, he imagined, might be a very nice place too, full of undiscovered secrets and mysteries.

Francois continued to acknowledge Hugo's presence by folding up his paper and putting it aside. "So, what do you know about The Scriptures?"

"The what?"

"The Scriptures. The word of the Lord. The Bible."

"Oh," he lifted his shoulders, "I don't know that much about it, but I do know there was a good and wise man once who taught the world how to live best and-" he cut off his sentence there, unsure what else he knew.

Francois nodded approvingly. "Well, there's more to it of course. You'll learn all about it under the guidance of the Parish."

Hugo wasn't particularly reassured by that promise, but decided not to say anything about it.

"Monsieur Lavette?"

"Yes?"

"Have you been looking for me for long?"

The tall Frenchman clicked his tongue. "Quite a while."

"Why?"

Lavette stiffened. "You'd better go and sleep now, we have a long journey ahead of us." Having said that, his guardian handed him a blanket from his own trunk, dimmed the lights in the cabin and hid behind his newspaper again. Once again, Hugo had trouble to fall asleep. Every time the man turned a page he began to doubt the true purpose of him being there, but he didn't dare to speak up. Eventually the lights went out completely and Lavette closed the curtains of their cabin. Hugo tried to imagine how far they'd travelled yet as he listened intently to the steady beat of the machinery below him. His last thought, before he dozed off, was of home.

Wherever that may be.


	4. Chapter 4 - Berlin, not Bordeaux

Chapter 4 – Berlin, not Bordeaux.

"We're not in Bordeaux? How do you mean we're not in Bordeaux?" Hugo crossed his arms and scowled at Lavette. The veins in his neck tightened like steel cables, he clenched his jaw.

"You evidently didn't pay attention during geography. Bordeaux is to the south, we're going towards the canal."

Though he disliked being lectured, he sensed Lavette was probably right. Shifting his weight from one leg onto the other he scanned the train station they'd arrived in. The signs were foreign to him and though he could discern the individual letters, he didn't know what they meant.

"So where are we now then?"

"Berlin," Lavette replied simply. "Come, we'll have some refreshments over there." He pointed towards a small cafeteria at the end of the platform. The crowd bustled about amidst the steam vapors of the trains. It reminded Hugo of home, though it was different. The language the people spoke was harsh and guttural, the stone platforms were completely undecorated and overall, the massive station had a dull and flat look about it that was very non=French.

"Berlin?" Hugo wondered aloud as they dragged their trunks towards the café. "That isn't any closer to England, I am not a dolt you know, and I did pay some attention."

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became Lavette was withholding several things from him. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for having went with the man so easily. But there was no turning back now. He had only his belongings, and those didn't include any money, save for the few useless French bits Mama Jeanne had given him.

Noticing the distress in the boy's eyes, Lavette sat down opposite to him at the cafe table, ordered a hot chocolate for him in flawless German and leaned forward.

"You must be wondering what you're doing here," he began.

Hugo nodded as he sipped his mug.

"Well, you're not going to England."

He choked on his chocolate and only just managed to keep everything inside. "What?" he stammered as soon as he'd recovered. "How? I don't-"

Lavette showed his palms and stopped him midsentence. "You will be going to England, but not now. I have an errand to run here-"

"So what?" Hugo protested weakly. "What do I have to do with it?"

"Nothing. That's exactly my point. You have nothing to do with this. I. . ." his voice trailed off and he gazed over Hugo's shoulders. When Hugo turned around to follow Lavette's gaze, he spotted only the waitress cleaning a table at the far end of the small café. When she had left, Lavette lowered his voice and leaned in even closer.

"Hear me out. I've been thinking all night if I should tell you this or not. But I've decided to trust you. I am not with the Parish of St. Peter's, you'll have to travel by yourself from here on out."

"Does it even exist?"

"What?"

"The Parish, does it even exist or did you lie about that too?" Hugo's brow furrowed.

"Oh yes it does, and officialy I do work for them. But I do work for someone else as well. Someone higher up. It's inconvenient that they demand my services now that I am supposed to escort you, but it is of national importance that I stay in Berlin." Lavette leaned back and sighed, a small smile tugged at his lips. "I don't imagine I'll be working for the Parish for long though, if they find out I let you travel alone."

"So," Hugo said, "everything about the Parish is true, but you're not a man of- well. . . "

"I am not a man of the church no. That was all an act." He cocked his head slightly and smiled again, brown eyes shining with determination. "Perhaps you can best think of me as that. An actor."

"Well. . .are you?"

"In a way."

When Hugo tasted his chocolate again, it seemed to have soured so he simply put it down and rubbed his forehead. He couldn't shake the feeling that, contrary to how many words Lavette had chosen to use, he'd in fact said very little. Still, the man had trusted him and the prospect of travelling alone from a country in which he didn't speak the language to another one in which he was similarly handicapped, didn't appeal to him.

"I'd rather not."

"Pardon?"

"I'd rather not travel alone. I'd rather stay. If it's just a few days, or a week even."

"Besides," he added thoughtfully, "it'll give me an opportunity to write home."

For what seemed to be an eternity, Lavette's eyes darted left and right. His mug of coffee had grown cold, and he'd more or less swatted the waitress away two times before he finally spoke again.

"Very well. But you'll have to stay inside your hotel room, do you understand?"

Relieved, Hugo managed a smile, nodded, and finished his chocolate.

_Not every one of you can see me. Yet I feel you, and you feel me. The miracle of our age is that you have found me. And our great country's fortune is that I have found you. I am right here, to restore that which was taken from us by force, to restore our national pride, to restore our great nation._

"Peter put that away please," Emilie said.

Peter closed the book he'd been reading with a sigh. Mother wouldn't let him do anything, it was miracle she'd even let him go the camps, although that of next Saturday had been cancelled because of the cold.

"You shouldn't read such hateful things," his mother continued. She put a serving tray on the table and poured him a cup of tea from their silver teapot. "There," she said, but he stubbornly ignored the cup. Why did she even bother? He didn't like tea, she knew that. Resting his chin on his hands, Peter gazed out of the large window and onto the snow-covered street.

"It's not hateful," he protested. "Why do you hate Germany so?"

"Peter!" she cried, putting her hands on her hips. "I don't hate our country, I just don't think it's right that you should read those books."

"But our Rottenführer-"

"Forget about the Rottenführer!"

"Just because you don't care-"

"But I do care!" She yanked the chair next to him backward and plumped down beside him. "Peter, please listen to me, that stuff's not healthy for you."

A fire burned in his chest, smothering the desire for him to talk back to her, to tell her how wrong she was. Imagining that she'd eventually give up, he kept his lips sealed and refused to even look at his tea.

"Fine," his mother sighed, "if you're going to be like this you can go to your room now and stay there."

He'd waited for this cue. At once he stood up, grabbed his book and dashed for the kitchen. Like a claw, his mother's hand seized his arm. "Without your book."

Peter gave her a furious look, tossed the book on the table and pulled his arm free. He ran through the kitchen, ignoring the smell of lasagna from the oven. Skipping several steps, he ran upstairs, bolted into his room, smacked the door shut behind him, and belly-flopped onto the bed. Stupid mom. Now that his father was away, she was trying to keep him in the house and away from the camps. His uniform, ironed and folded, laid on his desk, the swastika sewed onto it made him feel proud again, One day, he'd be a soldier too, like his father.

That day couldn't arrive soon enough.


	5. Chapter 5 - A room for two

Lavette kept a low voice the entire walk to the hotel. "You mustn't speak unless spoken to. It's been a while since the Germans regarded any Frenchman as an ally. Do you know any German?"

Hugo shook his head.

"Well, I'll teach you a few words then."

Everywhere he looked, Hugo spotted big red flags with a white circle in the center and a tilted cross. And there were soldiers too. He thought they looked terribly serious with their hardened gazes and pistols strapped around their waists. Whilst Paris derived its beauty from inherit chaos, Berlin was much more designed. Straight streets, straight buildings and ashen like the sky, with people hurriedly walking by, avoiding any eye-contact. They arrived at a hotel with four balconies on the front, two on each side of the entrance, one stacked above the other. It too had a red flag waving above the ajar, oaken door.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing up.

Lavette pushed his arm down. "Don't point at anything or anyone, do you understand?"

Hugo frowned. It was just a silly flag.

"It's a swastika. It's the symbol of the Führer, the sole leader of Germany. You greet him, his soldiers and anyone loyal to his party with 'Heil Hitler'"

"Heil what?"

"Heil Hitler. Hitler is their leader. Now keep quiet and let me handle this."

Why was he being so tense all of a sudden? It made Hugo feel like he was nothing but a burden that Lavette was more or less forced to carry around. Meekly following Lavette inside, Hugo's jaw dropped when they stepped in. Though the building had looked rather plain and lifeless on the outside, it was the very opposite on the inside. He could make out his own face in the polished marble floor and when he looked up, he was mesmerized by the intricate patterns that had been carved into the ceiling. When he looked down again, he spotted a check-in counter at the far end of the hall. A woman sat behind it, wearing an awful flowery dress.

"Welcome. How can I be of service?" she asked in a sugary sweet voice.

"We'd like to rent a room for tonight."

"Of course. A room for two?"

Lavette glanced briefly over his shoulder, then looked back. The woman had put too much perfume on, but still not enough to hide the salade with garlic she'd devoured not ten minutes ago. "That'll do," he said.

"Oh, and I will need to see your identification, please."

"That won't be necessary."

The woman raised her eyebrows at him, so high in fact that they threatened to run off her forehead.

"I know Ms. Schullstein very well, you can ask her."

Apparently Ms. Schullstein was a superior of the woman. Hugo had no other explanation as to why else Lavette was being handed the key to their room without further questions.

"Who's Ms. Shoestein?" Hugo inquired as soon as they'd closed the door of room 23 behind them. The room was quite small and lacked the grandeur of the main hall. Still, it looked quite comfortable. The beds had been made with German precision, one was seated near the window whilst the other was closer to the door. Aside from two chairs, a table, a bookshelf, a standing lamp and a small armoire to store their clothes in, there wasn't much decoration in the room. Not even a red flag.

"Ms. _Schullstein_ runs this place. Other than that, I don't know."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that showing her our identification would've brought us more trouble than it's worth. That woman is sitting down there all day, there's a good chance she has already forgotten us-"

Someone knocked on the door. They exchanged a surprised look before Lavette called, "who's there?"

"It's Emilie Schullstein. Apparently I know you?"

Before the tall Frenchman could tell him not to, Hugo had opened the door. On the other side stood a woman barely a head taller than him. Her blond hair was tied into a bun and the quality of her slim, black dress over her white blouse betrayed that she was much wealthier than the woman at the check-in.

"Oh hello there," she greeted. "Who are you?"

Unable to comprehend what she was asking, Hugo simply stepped away from the door and let Lavette take over.

"We've come from far, Ms. Schullstein. We're only travelers passing through."

She placed her hands on her hips and stepped inside the room. Her eyes darting all over the place as if she'd caught them breaking in. Squinting her eyes she said, "how do you know my name?"

"It's on the sign at the check-in," Lavette explained, "though I presume Schullstein is your husband's surname?"

"Ah, well, I am going to have to see your identification. With the new laws in place. . . "

"We're French," Lavette simply replied. "My name is Francois, and this little man is Hugo."

Hugo's heart skipped a beat when her gaze swept over him. She seemed to be looking straight through him, as if she could assess their intentions by merely meeting their eyes with her own.

"What brings you to Berlin?"

"Like I said, madame, we're only passing through."

"Whereto?"

Hugo barely managed to hide his surprise when Lavette replied, "Amsterdam."

She sighed, then nodded which Hugo took to be a good sign. "Come with me," she breathed.

Together they followed the woman upstairs to the highest floor. She fetched some keys from a pocket and unlocked a large oaken door that led into a big living room. "They check the rooms, so if you desire to stay here, you'll have to stay here, where I live."

Astounded, Lavette searched for words to express his gratitude, but only managed a few odd expressions and throat sounds.

"Oh it's no bother. Besides, I think my son will really enjoy the company of someone his age."

It took Hugo several seconds to realize he could actually understand what the woman was saying. "You speak French?"

Motioning for them to sit down on the couch in her living room, Ms. Schullstein smiled gently at Hugo. "As your protégée guessed, Schullstein is my husband's name. My birth name is Emilie Dugare."

"I don't mean to impose on you," Lavette began,"but why are you helping us?"

Emilie was just about to answer when a small, thin, blonde-haired blue-eyed boy entered the room and froze. "Who are they?" he demanded to know.

"They're travelers from France," she replied.

"I don't like them."

"Peter!" Emilie whirled around in her seat. "You can't talk to visitors like that, where are your manners? I am so very sorry for his bad behavior, it's his father you se-"

Peter walked up to Hugo and seized him up with his eyes. "Who are you?" Hugo looked at Lavette, who confirmed with a simple nod that he'd been asked for his name.

"Hugo," he said as he offered his hand. But the other boy refused to take it and instead gave him a very nasty look. "Well, Hugo from France. You're not a Jew, are you?"

"No."

"Lucky you."

At the end of the hall was a check-in counter carved out of a dark, nicely polished wood. Behind it sat a woman in a rather horrible, flowery dress which was laced around her waist much too tightly. So tight in fact that Hugo feared all the air would be squeezed out of her if she stood up.

"Ah Herr und Jungen, welcome in our hotel!" She greeted them as if they were the very first customers she'd ever seen.

"A room for two, I imagine?"

"Jawohl," answered Lavette, which Hugo guessed meant 'yes'.

After a short exchange of some more words that he didn't understand, Lavette was handed a key and the moved their trunks upstairs. Their room was small, but comfortable. Two fauteuils were seated near a small hearthfire, a bed near the room and another one closer to the door. Aside from an armoire, a lamp, a bookshelf and a tapestry there wasn't much else in the room.

"Now Hugo," Lavette said as he put down his trunk on the bed near the door, "I will have to leave you here for the night. I'll be back by midnight."

Hugo sat down on the other bed and gazed out of the window. There was a small courtyard below, a single tree standing at the centre of it. A brown-haired boy roughly his age sat slumped against the wall opposite to the window, he looked rather sad.

"Here, you can have the keys. Don't lose them," Lavette said as he tossed them towards him.

"How can I lose them if I am to stay here?"

Lavette chuckled and continued to unpack his trunk. "Well, you can go downstairs and sit in the lobby if you like. Just stay quiet, and don't stare at things, alright?"

"Alright."

Hugo thought he saw Lavette pull a gun from his trunk, but wasn't entirely sure. Before he'd mustered the courage to ask, his guardian had already said his goodbyes and strode away, leaving him behind. Alone.

After half an hour of staring at the ceiling, he had enough of it and jumped up from his bed. There wasn't any harm in doing a little exploring, he thought. But, to make himself look less suspicious, he decided to pick a book from the shelf so he could pretend to be reading German.

Letting his eyes slide over the many covers, he picked a red book with golden letters, walked out of the room, locked the door behind him and headed downstairs.

As soon as he sat down in the lobby a waitress approached him and asked him something. He shook his head and hoped she'd been asking him if he wanted to order anything. To his relief, he'd guessed right and she disappeared. From his spot in the corner of the lobby, which consisted of a dozen or so round tables with four chairs on each table or a bench if it was positioned near the wall, he could see everyone that entered or left the courtyard.

Not three minutes passed before the boy he'd seen from the window entered the lobby. Disregarding Lavette's advice, Hugo glanced over the edge of his book to get a better look. The boy was a little smaller than him, had straw-blonde hair, slouched shoulders and was wearing a dark blue uniform. He wondered if the boy was a soldier too, he couldn't be much older than twelve, and Hugo had yet to see boys that age being drafted into any army.

He was shaken from his thoughts when he realized the boy was staring back. Making a futile attempt to appear innocent, he cleared his throat and pretended to read. But from the corners of his eyes he noticed some movement until a small shadow loomed over the white of the pages.

"What's your name?" the boy asked. Hugo gave him a confused look, he didn't have a clue what the boy was asking from him.

"My name's Peter," the boy said, "I like your choice of book."

Catching the name, Hugo offered his hand and simply replied, "Hugo. Hugo Cabret."

There was a slight twitch in the boy's arm, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch others, but after a second or three, he accepted Hugo's hand and shook it.

"Can I sit?"

Seeing that Peter had glanced at the bench, Hugo presumed he was asking for a seat, So he simply nodded.

"You don't say much, do you?"

Hugo shrugged and scooted to the side a bit when Peter sat down next to him. An odd silence fell between them, until he could no longer bear it.

"I am French," he explained. Even though he assumed Peter was as incapable of understanding him, he probably got that he was from a different country. Peter stood up at once and backed away from Hugo, as if he was some sort of poisonous animal. "Unglaublich (unbelievable)," Peter muttered under his breath as scrutinized Hugo with a determined scowl.

"You no look French. You is Arian," Peter said in broken French.

"You speak French?"

"Little bit," Peter replied. "My uncle, from France he is. But what are you doing in Germany?"

"I can't say."

Peter rolled his eyes at Hugo, then looked down at the red book he'd been pretending to read. "Are you looking to join the HJ?"

Unsure what the HJ was, and uneager to blow his cover even further, Hugo simply nodded yes. This seemed to delight Peter as his stern gaze morphed into a smile. "Cool! I am in it too!" He pointed at the swastika tied around his upper right arm of his uniform.

(Part 2 of this chapter will follow shortly. I simply couldn't type out more today. Sorry!)


End file.
